


now we reside in the great divide

by arekiras



Series: i have run through the fields of pain and sighs [2]
Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Dalish Elven Culture and Customs, M/M, Mage Inquisitor (Dragon Age), Post-Dragon Age: Inquisition Quest - In Your Heart Shall Burn, Pre-Relationship, Trans Inquisitor (Dragon Age), Trans Male Character
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-09
Updated: 2020-06-09
Packaged: 2021-03-04 00:54:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,612
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24625063
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/arekiras/pseuds/arekiras
Summary: ‘Dorian has no idea what to say. “I’m sorry we abandoned you” doesn’t begin to cover it, but “I have no idea why you mean so much to me, but the thought that you had been lost to me was unbearable” is a tad excessive.’—The Herald of Andraste falls, rises again, and then almost freezes to death. Both he and Dorian have some thoughts on the subject.
Relationships: Male Inquisitor/Dorian Pavus, Male Lavellan/Dorian Pavus
Series: i have run through the fields of pain and sighs [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1771810
Comments: 3
Kudos: 46





	now we reside in the great divide

**Author's Note:**

> “Pace yourself,” I say, “don’t just jump right into the juicy bits.” Following my own advice is hard, but I’m determined to do these two justice. 
> 
> Find me on tumblr @transamatus

Ematuelanuren has experienced cold before, but never like this. Winters in the Free Marches were wet, clinging things, rendering you clammy and uncomfortable. This is different. The frigid mountain air bites directly through his clothes and into his very bones, burning his nostrils and lungs with every breath. His face had gone from a painful burning to almost completely numb, and he can feel frost collecting on his lashes and cheeks. The trebuchets caused avalanches, burying the path completely, forcing him to walk through thigh deep snow drifts toward what he can only pray is not his frozen death. 

It is getting harder and harder to walk. The tumble he took after the attack on Haven injured his hip and each step is screaming agony, especially with the resistance of the snow. And he is so tired. All Ematuelanuren wants is to stop, and rest, but he knows that following such thoughts will bring him to his death. Giving into his exhaustion will insure he doesn’t make it through the night. 

He is not ashamed at the tears that well up in his eyes and spill over onto his cheeks, but they freeze on his skin almost immediately. He swipes at his face with his gloved hands, leaning heavily on his staff for support as he continues on. The white of the ground is barely visible in the overwhelming darkness, mountains and snow and sky all blending together in a chilly haze, obscured by the heavy wind. Ematuelanuren continues stubbornly forward, allowing his mind to drift for his sanity. He thinks of his mother and siblings, the clan, the Keeper, even as it aches in his chest to do it, anything to distract him from the fact that he can no longer feel his legs. 

Into the darkness, Ematuelanuren begins to sing. His voice is hoarse and carried off by the wind immediately, but he sings as loudly as he can. Elven songs every Dalish child knows, lullabies and songs of mourning and silly limericks. His voice bounces off of the mountains, and he deliriously wonders if there are any Dalish elves out there who can hear him, who might think he is a ghost. 

As the wind grows fiercer, he sings louder, screaming at this point. Sometimes he loses the words and simply howls into the dark, wailing, before he stops to breathe deeply and pick up where he left off.  _ If I die out here, the Creators will hear me before I go _ , he thinks to himself darkly. 

It is no longer clear if the snow is obscuring his vision, or if his vision is simply going blurry. Tiny pinpricks of light dance in his eyes and he sways with them. Two, then four, then a small hoard of them bouncing off of the snow, dazzling even in the oppressive darkness. Ematuelanuren falls to his knees, still forcing the words of his songs out between his frozen lips. He can’t hear himself anymore, but he hears other voices. 

“It’s him!” 

“Thank the Maker!” 

_ No, no Maker _ , he thinks hysterically,  _ Not again.  _

The dancing points of light grow closer and closer, illuminating the forms beneath them, until Ematuelanuren can make out distinct shapes and features. Humans. Instinctively, he thinks to run. Before anything else, Ematuelanuren is an elf, and a group of humans carrying torches sparks a cultural fear in him. But then a solid, warm arm heaves him to his feet and his face meets the furred pauldrons of Cullen’s cloak and he sags forward. Cullen hands off his torch to a scout and hooks his arm around Ematuelanuren’s back, hauling him up and speaking. Ematuelanuren can not tell who he is addressing, cannot parse the words. 

Cassandra becomes another blessedly warm presence on his other side, looping his other arm over her shoulders and taking on some of his weight. Ematuelanuren becomes aware that he is shaking violently, trembling too hard to keep his feet under him, his legs useless and limp, his teeth chattering together painfully hard. 

Cullen and Cassandra carry him between them towards a sea of torches and fires, a camp set in the snowed over mountain pass. He registers concerned faces, and overjoyed faces, and a cacophony of voices and noise. Hands reach out and touch him, Cassandra and Cullen muscling their way through a gathering crowd, shouting for healers and  _ Adan! Damn it all, where is the apothecary?  _

Shortly after this, the line between waking and dreaming grows more and more blurred until eventually, the glow of torches and the soft humming of the Fade become one, and one of the healers that leans over him bears his mother’s face, and all he can do is drift. 

  
  


It is several days into their trek across the Frostbacks when Dorian finally manages to speak to Ematuelanuren again. Vivienne and the Grand Enchanter managed to wrangle the rebel mages into something resembling order, using their powers to help the caravan of the remains of the Inquisition across the perilous snow without freezing or being crushed by avalanches. Their lyrium stores are becoming worryingly low, but the leadership assures them all that their journey will be nearing its end soon. Camp is being set along a slightly less terrifying cliff face than all the rest of the ones they’ve scaled today, and the Herald is conferring with Leliana about something, a hooded scout between them. Dorian waits a polite distance away until both the spymaster and her spy depart before approaching. “Hello, Dorian,” Ematuelanuren says, digging his hands into the pockets of his woolen cloak. His cheeks are flushed with cold and his breath fogs between his lips. Dorian can almost feel it ghosting over his own frosted skin. 

“Herald,” Dorian inclines his head, and at the elf’s scowl he corrects himself, “Ematuelanuren.”

“I haven’t seen much of you since,” Ematuelanuren falters slightly, swallowing, “since Haven. You’re well?” 

“Quite well, thank you. Takes more than a templar or twenty to get me down, evidently,” Dorian says easily. He says it easily, arms crossed and posture relaxed, but he feels stiff and awkward. He’s been fretting over this meeting, this man, since he last saw him through a blaze of fire days ago, and all he can manage now is bland small talk?

Well, what did he expect, really? All Dorian wanted was to speak with him, hear his voice and see his face and know he is unharmed. Haven haunts his every waking moment, the heat of the village going up in flames, the fast paced battle. No time to think, only time to react as red horrors fell upon them from every direction. And then that horrible moment when he realized they were missing one among their number, looking back in time to see a flash of reddish brown hair in the sick light of fire and whatever Void cursed thing that Archdemon breathed from its mouth. He was torn asunder in that moment: part of him wanting to flee, part wanting to run back and carry Ematuelanuren to safety with him. Blackwall’s hand gripping his arm made the decision, and they retreated. 

Dorian is not unfamiliar with the sensation of guilt, but knowing it doesn’t make bearing it any easier. He’s been heavy with it since that moment, guilt and loathing and regret boiling within him so much that he didn’t even notice the cold of the valley they camped in. He was so wrapped up in it that he almost missed Ematuelanuren’s glorious return, until Inquisition soldiers and workers were nearly trampling him in their excitement to see their Herald alive again. When the singing began, he might have laughed if he hadn’t been so close to weeping. 

And now, days later, Dorian has no idea what to say. “I’m sorry we abandoned you” doesn’t begin to cover it, but “I have no idea why you mean so much to me, but the thought that you had been lost to me was unbearable” is a tad excessive. He clears his throat. “I am inexpressibly glad to see you alive. I regret very much that we left you behind in Haven, truly.” Ematuelanuren shifts awkwardly, glancing away. “I know that my saying that doesn’t help, cannot erase that we did or all that you faced afterward, but I am sorry. For what it’s worth.” 

“I- thank you, Dorian. I suppose, in some ways, it was good that I didn’t flee with the rest of you. I learned who our enemy was and what my mark is. And, had I escaped then, Corypheus may have been more inclined to pursue us,” Ematuelanuren says. “That’s what I’ve been telling myself, anyway.” 

They sit in silence for a few moments, Dorian unsure how to respond and Ematuelanuren studying the flames before them, until, in an effort to say anything at all, Dorian blurts, “Cassandra says that you were singing. They found you because they heard your song.” 

Ematuelanuren frowns up at him and Dorian feels like a fool. But then he says, “The Dalish sing when we bury our dead. It felt like the thing to do, since I was going to be buried by snow.” He shuffles closer to Dorian in the snow and rests a gloved hand on his arm. Dorian almost flinches at the touch; when is the last time someone has touched him? “Don’t blame yourself, Dorian. We’re here now,” Ematuelanuren’s gentle expression morphs into a teasing smirk, “Besides, it takes more than an ancient magister Darkspawn to get me down.” He turns away then, walking in the direction of Josephine, leaving Dorian staring after him, skin tingling beneath his coat where they touched. 

  
  



End file.
